Thousands cheer, reflect as Texas Stadium crumbles into lore

IRVING - Exploding dynamite crackled through the air and the
ground shook at dawn Sunday, tumbling Texas Stadium from its perch
as an American sports landmark.

In less than a minute, 2,715 pounds of explosives turned the
former home of the Dallas Cowboys into a pile of rubble. Its famous
roof fell to shreds atop it all.

Thousands of people - politicians, former players, diehard
Dallas Cowboys fans - watched from the parking lots, highways and
hills surrounding the famous building and cheered when it came down
as if the Cowboys had just scored a touchdown. Thousands more
watched the implosion live on local television, and residents
reported feeling the blast as far away as Farmers Branch and East
Dallas.

Spectators journeyed to the hallowed football grounds in the
middle of the night to catch a final glimpse of a stadium that gave
birth to 38 years worth of football and entertainment memories.

"This ain't a sleeping night," said Norma Bowers of Garland, who
arrived at 8 p.m. Saturday to snag a front-row spot off of State
Highway 183 across from the former home of America's Team.

Casey Rogers was the star of the gold lot, the VIP area where
the implosion's formal ceremony was held. The 11-year-old Terrell
boy became a celebrity in recent weeks after winning event sponsor
Kraft Macaroni & Cheese's essay contest for kids who have made
a difference in their communities.

Four years ago, he started Casey's Heart, a charity that
provides food and clothing to Dallas's homeless once a month. After
fireworks and a countdown, Casey pushed the button that triggered
the implosion. He then quickly turned to watch the stadium's
undoing.

"I did it!" he said to his dad, Russell Rogers, after the dust
cleared to reveal the massive pile of blasted concrete and snapped
steel. "It's not there any more."

'Personality all its own'

Three of the buttresses that supported the roof stuck out of the
rubble after the implosion. Officials said that they were leaning
against other debris, and that they'll be easily torn down this
week.

But the buttresses immediately became their own sources of lore.
It was no surprise, since one of the stadium's first legends was
that its roof had a hole in it so God could watch his favorite team
play.

Bruce Hardy, the stadium's longtime general manager, joked with
Cowboys owner Jerry Jones that the columns stood in honor of the
three Super Bowls the Cowboys won during their shared tenure that
stretched from the 1980s to the last season in 2008.

Some saw the buttresses as symbols of the Cowboys' original
architects - former team owner Clint Murchison Jr., general manager
Tex Schramm and coach Tom Landry.

Others saw their refusal to fall as a manifestation of the
defiant and stubborn spirit people often attributed to the stadium
and its intimidation of visiting teams. Or perhaps they signified
the "Triplets" of the 1990s - Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith and Michael
Irvin.

"As the years went by, it became more and more embedded in
people as a special place," said Bob Power, who was mayor of Irving
in 1967 when the team announced it was building its new stadium
there. "It became a personality all its own."

Texas Stadium opened in 1971 with evangelist Billy Graham's
10-day revival. The Cowboys' first game there, on Oct. 24 of that
year, was a 44-21 win over the New England Patriots. The team went
on to win its first of five Super Bowl Championships that
season.

Through the decades, Texas Stadium grew into the home of some of
sports' most memorable moments. It's where Roger Staubach cemented
his Captain Comeback reputation and Smith became the NFL's top
rusher. Former coach and NFL legend Landry roamed its sidelines in
his fedora and Crazy Ray rallied fans with his famous antics.

The stadium housed the Cowboys Ring of Honor and hosted five NFC
title games. It made 30 Monday Night Football appearances and was
the annual rite of Thanksgiving tradition for more than a
generation of North Texans. There were countless festivals and
concerts, including performances by Michael Jackson, U2 and Garth
Brooks.

"The roof started to fall on where my office was, and then my
heart went to my feet," said Hardy.

Crowds come early

The spectacle surrounding the event was billed as "The Last
Tailgate Party." Attendants made sure it lived up to its name. Fans
paid $25 per car to watch from the stadium's red lot. The lot
didn't open until about 1:30 a.m. and Irving police had to shoo
away folks who started showing up at 9 p.m. Saturday.

A line of cars trying to get into the lot backed up traffic on
Loop 12 about 3 a.m. Sunday. By the time the blast took the
building down, more than 4,000 cars had filled the lot.

Friends Kevin O'Conner and Brian Koppa made plans to watch in
person as soon as the implosion date was announced. By 5 a.m.
Sunday, they were seated on top of the levees at the back of the
red lot.

"Right now, we're as close as we can get without being in the
middle of the madness," O'Connor said, with his son Garrison seated
next to him.

The southern access road along Highway 183 looked like a shanty
camp. Parking lots were packed with people camped out in tents, in
lawn chairs, or asleep on car hoods. Amateur photographers had set
up tripods on the dusty road side, while drunks and large families
weaved between them and the crawling traffic.

City officials said it was hard to get a count.

"Big charter buses were just unloading," said Irving city
spokeswoman Susan Rose.

On the roads

Many people showed up Saturday night. Families camped out in
sleeping bags and tents. Devon Farris, 8, used his backpack as a
pillow as he waited for the big moment. His mom, Lindsay Farris,
dragged him and his brother out of bed to watch.

"It was worth it," the boy Devon said. "I want to see the
stadium blow up."

Some time Saturday night, Andy Swearingen, 22, squeezed six
friends from his high school in Carrollton into his Toyota 4Runner
("six in the front and one in the trunk") and staked out a parking
space across from the stadium. They were still drinking by 5
a.m.

"Aaaaaaay!" they would holler at anyone who passed by - a cheer
Swearingen said was given special significance by a decorative
plastic "A" he had installed on the broken post of a nearby traffic
sign.

"Aaaaaaay!" he yelled at two women who walked by with cameras.
But he got up to chase them away when he realized they were wearing
New York Giants shirts.

Police closed the highways surrounding the stadium minutes
before the implosion. A crowd of thousands immediately filled the
State Highway 183 bridge over Loop 12.

Some people tried to walk into the middle of the main lanes of
the highway, but were chased off by officers who drove by and
screamed, "Get out of the road!, This is not rocket science!."

After the officers passed, the spectators returned. One fan even
carried a white sofa into the passing lane for a few moments.

'I'll remember'

Still, the hoopla couldn't drown out the somber remembrance
blanketing that blanketed the morning.

"It's sad and emotional to see such a landmark be gone," said
former Cowboy Drew Pearson, who attended a watching party at the La
Cima Club, a restaurant atop Williams Square in Las Colinas.

As the dynamite boomed and the stadium began to tumble, tears
filled the eyes of the owner and general manager, Jones, as it did
with his daughter, Charlotte Anderson, and granddaughter,
Haley.

"It was [emotional] moreso than you thought it would be," Jones
said as he walked to his car. "When that roof started coming in, it
was sad. That's about all you can say."

Larry Hoofard of Bedford found a mound of dirt at a small
construction site along Tom Braniff Road for his front-row seat. He
sold popcorn in the stadium when he was in high school, his prom
was held in the Stadium Club, and his high school graduation was on
the stadium floor.

Up the road, a couple hundred University of Dallas students
grilled pancakes and watched TV on a hill. The crowd eventually
spilled down Tom Braniff Drive, into the bushes and along the
median lanes, where a several people climbed trees for a better
view.

As fireworks went off before the implosion, Hoofard stood
silently with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He flinched a
little when the dynamite started to go off. He didn't cheer like
the rest of the crowd, and stood on the mound long after others
left. He was an anomaly among spectators in that he didn't take
pictures or video.

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